by Urban, Tony
Danny stumbled backward and crashed against the display case, grabbing the sides of his head. Blood gushed through his fingers. "You bitch! I'm gonna get you now, you bitch!"
But he didn't move his hands away from his shredded ears. Ramey realized he was crying, but the tears were an obscene mix of pus and blood that decorated his cheeks like war paint.
Ramey dove sideways, toward the shotgun, and grabbed it. When she climbed to her knees and spun to Danny he was coming at her, his dick now flaccid and dangling.
Guess I killed the mood.
She didn't stop to think because, if she did, she might have stopped herself. Instead, Ramey pulled the trigger.
She wasn't prepared for the force of the 10 gauge. Neither was Danny. The recoil blew the gun out of her hands and threw Ramey backward. She fell over upended display racks, and a mound of snack bags broke her fall. If her ears hadn't been ringing like a school bell, she would have heard them pop under her weight.
Danny wasn't as lucky. He was less than five feet away from the end of the barrel when the slug caught him in the upper chest. The shot sent him flying into the glass counter behind him. It shattered on impact, raining glass down like confetti.
Ramey watched, mouth agape, as pints of blood poured from a one inch hole between the knobs of Danny's collar bones. His eyes remained open in a perpetual state of shock.
Her shoulder was a ball of misery where the shotgun had collided with it and the pain radiated across her chest. She climbed onto her knees, careful not to push up with her right arm.
She made it to her feet and approached Danny who sat there, motionless. She pushed against his stomach with her foot to see if there was any reaction. Danny responded by folding over at the waist and the change of position revealed a ragged hole in his back large enough to fit a gallon jug.
She was pissed off and scared and felt sick to her stomach. She didn't mind dispatching the zombies, but this was a person. A living person. And even if he was an aspiring rapist, now she was a killer and she hated him for that. For turning her into that.
"Damn you. Why were you such an asshole?"
She wiped tears from her eyes and, in doing so, felt her swollen upper lip. She checked her reflection in a sunglasses display rack and saw a half inch gash to the left of the center. Blood still oozed from the wound. Her reflection helped disperse her inner turmoil, at least a bit.
Ramey grabbed a handful of plastic shopping bags and recommenced gathering food and supplies. She couldn't care less about stealing any more. She'd earned this bounty.
With three bags full, she moved toward the doorway, stopping when she heard glass crunch behind her.
"I'm not going to look. Nope, not gonna do it."
But the sound grew closer and soon a serenade of low groans joined it.
"Damn it."
Ramey turned around and discovered Danny lurching toward her. Light peeked through the ragged hole in his chest. When he groaned, blood bubbled from the wound.
"You've got to be shitting me," Ramey said. She had seen people bit by zombies turn into the creatures, but Danny the rapist had died from natural causes. Well, as natural as a shotgun blast to the chest can be. She'd expected him to stay dead and had no interest in round two.
As Danny stumbled over spilled groceries and tumbled to his knees, Ramey took her bags and scooted out of the store. When she reached the truck, she considered taking Stan's pistol and finishing him off, but her body ached and she decided to get back on the road instead.
Chapter 15
The morning sun sliced through the clear sky and heated up the day fast. Grady wasn't certain when the night had succumbed to day. He and Josiah had been walking nonstop.
He wasn't even aware that his bare feet were bleeding and leaving a trail of red footsteps behind him as he traveled. They'd escaped the city, passing by zombies and rioters, police and military. In the chaos, Grady and his dead son were invisible.
He only realized it was daylight after being blinded by a gleaming, white mirage ahead of him. This is the light, he thought. We're walking into the light. Into salvation. He picked up the pace, moving at a trot now, and Josiah toddled along beside, still holding Grady's hand.
They were ten feet from the light when Grady's eyes adjusted and he realized he was actually looking at a silver tractor trailer parked haphazardly across the roadway. Painted on the side was "East Coast Grocers." Grady shielded his eyes so the light reflecting off the rig stopped blinding him. When he did, he saw the tall man standing in front of the tractor.
He was a beanpole with white hair pulled back in a long pony tail. He held a cigarette in one hand and his dick in the other as he pissed in the middle of the street. He was in mid-stream when he saw Grady and the boy.
"Oh, fuckeroo." He tried to shove his manhood back into his pants, urinating all over his hand and jeans in the process. He wiped his hand on his shirt. "I'm sorry, buddy. Thought I had the world to myself out here."
He extended the hand he'd just pissed on and Grady shook it anyway. "Ross Hillstrom." He peered into the rising sun and was unable to see the man and boy in detail.
"I'm Grady. This is my son, Josiah." Grady patted the boy on the shoulder and could feel him straining to get at Ross. He struggled to hold him back, trying to appear normal and relaxed.
Ross didn't notice anything amiss. If Grady had been the type to dabble in drugs, he'd have known the cigarette in Ross's hand didn't contain tobacco. The man was high as the proverbial kite.
"Where you coming from and where you going?"
"We lived in Baltimore. As for where we're going... Wherever the good Lord takes us, I suppose."
"Well, call me Jesus Christ Almighty then. I've got plenty of room and hate riding solo."
The blaspheme cut Grady's heart like a blade, but he didn't address it. Now that he'd emerged from his stupor, he felt the searing pain in his feet.
Worried and scared, he checked Josiah's and saw the skin around the perimeters was torn and ragged, but not bleeding yet. Maybe God had sent this man to rescue them.
"Is that yours?" he asked, motioning to the tractor trailer.
Ross shrugged. "Sorta kinda. I was following it down 70 outta Hagerstown. All a sudden it stopped right there in the middle of the interstate. I walked up to the cab to check on the driver and when I opened the door he jumped out and attacked me.
“I had a hell of a time getting him off me, but after fighting a while, I shoved him over the guardrails and down an embankment. The sucker was trying to bite me!"
He gave a low, slow whistle out the gap between his front teeth. "Bout that same time, all a Hell was breaking loose. Cars crashing. People fighting. People turning into zombies. Someone rear-ended my pick up and smashed it all to shit and I figured the fella who'd been driving this wouldn't be needing it anymore, so I hopped in and skidooted out of there. Figured, if nothing else, I'll be able to drive a hell of a long time without running out of food."
Ross turned toward the truck and waved the others forward. "There's a nice sleeper in the back of the cab. Your boy can crash back there. Looks sorta tired."
Grady looked down at Josiah, whose head lolled back and forth. "I appreciate that. I'm sure he could use a nap."
Josiah didn't want to nap. He squirmed and writhed when Grady carried him into the sleeper and kept trying to get at Ross, who was completely clueless to the goings on.
Grady didn't want a repeat of the incident with O'Dell and LaRon, so he used bungee cords he found in the cab to tie Josiah fast to the bed. The boy fought against the restraints and Grady leaned down and kissed his cold forehead.
"Hush now. Be calm." Josiah listened. For a while.
Less than an hour passed before Ross had to make another stop. "Why don't you and your boy stretch your legs and give the weasel a good shake, too."
Grady didn't need to stretch his legs or shake his weasel, but he didn't want to do anything to raise suspicions. Not that Ross was overly perceptiv
e. Earlier, when he heard Josiah growling in the backseat, Grady used asthma as the excuse. The older man bought it without question.
While Ross left to relieve himself, Grady climbed in the sleeper with Josiah, who was more agitated than ever. He snapped at Grady's hands as he loosened the cords and nearly bit him twice. When the boy was free, Grady held him firmly by his neck to control him.
He saw Ross a dozen yards up the empty highway, smoking and pissing simultaneously. When Ross saw them, he gave a wide, jovial wave. Grady waved back with one hand and held Josiah with the other.
Grady moved so the truck blocked Ross's view, then knelt on the road and looked into Josiah's face. All the color had left it and his skin had taken on an almost transparent quality. He could see the criss-crossed jumble of veins under his flesh. They were black. Josiah lunged for him and came within less than an inch of taking off the tip of Grady's nose.
"Josiah, that's bad. Very bad!" he scolded and Josiah's head drooped like a whipped mule.
A ragged growl fell out of the boy's open mouth. "Hrar graah."
Hungry? Did he just say he's hungry?
Grady looked at his son as drool ran from the boy's gaping mouth. He touched his fingertips to Josiah's chin and lifted it so the boy's face tilted upward, parallel to his own.
"Are you hungry, Josiah?"
Grady got his answer when Josiah growled again. The poor boy was probably starving. He had eaten little of his hamburger helper the day prior and had nothing since then. But he was beyond hamburger helper now. Grady knew what Josiah wanted. What Josiah needed. God had given him back his son and now it was his duty to fulfill his needs.
He rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal the soft, fatty skin under his upper arm. He'd seen what happened when these dead souls ate from the still living, but Christ himself told his disciples to partake of his flesh. Now, Grady believed it was his turn.
"Eat, my son."
Josiah lunged for his arm and buried his teeth into his father's skin. Grady let his eyes fall shut and tried to stay still as Josiah ate.
Chapter 16
Mead planned to head West. He had no particular destination in mind, but he knew the population grew sparser once you passed Missouri. He thought he might eventually aim for Wyoming or Idaho or any of those states no one visited unless they were born there.
He'd made it forty miles when the Cavalier's engine blew. A bang loud enough to make his body vibrate exploded and all forward motion suddenly ceased. Blue smoke seeped out from the gaps around the hood.
"Aw, fuck!" Mead knew the Cav was nearing the end of its life, but he hadn't seen a car on the road for fifteen miles. Walking a marathon hoping to find a new ride was low on his priority list.
He sat in the car until the smoke became heavy enough to burn his lungs. He grabbed the hockey sticks and started emptying the food from the trunk when the front of the car burst into flames. My shitty assed luck, he thought.
He grabbed an armload of junk food before the heat became too much to bear. Then he walked half a football field up the road, sat on the berm, and ate chips while he watched it burn.
Bundy saw the smoke billowing above the tree line in the distance. He assumed a house or small town might be burning, but when he got closer, he saw the coupe consumed in flames.
He drove around it and tried to see if anyone was inside, but it appeared empty. Just as well as orange flames filled the interior. Anyone inside would be charbroiled and well done.
That thought made him hungry. Before this plague and before prison, he'd been something of a grill aficionado. He owned several varieties and had been a blue ribbon winner at the county fair four years running for his pulled pork.
Aside from weekend barbecuing adventures, Bundy had spent much of his life managing a warehouse that sold parts for things like weed eaters and lawn mowers. His job was monotonous, but easy enough as far as nine-to-fives go. He got along well with his co-workers and bosses, but never considered them friends. Bundy didn't really have friends, but he had plenty of acquaintances and that sufficed.
I had a good life, he thought. He hoped he could build another one in this new wasteland.
After he passed the car, he saw a person sitting further up the road. He thought it was a woman with long brown hair, but soon he realized his mistake. This was a man, albeit a homely one.
Bundy flicked off the safety on the pistol he had holstered at his side and stepped out of the van.
That's the biggest motherfucker I've ever seen, Mead thought as Bundy strolled toward him. He wondered if sitting on the ground had skewed his perception, so he jumped to his feet. Nope, still fucking huge.
The giant had a large, open face that seemed as easy to read as a grade school primer. That coupled with his straw blond hair made him look like an over-sized toddler. Mead considered brandishing one of his double-bladed sticks, but decided against it, hoping to make a better first impression.
"I'm Mead." He extended his hand, not because he was ever big on handshakes, but because it seemed the polite thing to do.
"Bundy." The giant's hand swallowed up Mead's own.
"That your first name or your last?"
"Neither. But that's what everyone calls me."
"Then I will, too."
Bundy motioned to the fireball that used to be a car. "That your ride?"
"It was. Still is, I guess. Not that it'll do me any good now."
Bundy nodded. "No. I'd say its usefulness has been fully expended." He eyed Mead's customized weapons. "You make those?"
Mead squatted and grabbed one. He held it up for display but didn't hand it over. "Yeah. The stick is supposed to be unbreakable. So far that's held up."
"Nice." Bundy tapped the firearm at his side. "I'm not too quick, so I prefer something I can use at a distance."
"I've never even shot a gun. Besides, I don't really trust them in an emergency."
"Understandable. Firearms are best left out of the hands of the inexperienced."
Bundy's gigantic upper arms hung loose from his sleeveless shirt. They were the size of country hams and perfect for eating if you were a zombie. Mead didn't know if the man would appreciate unsolicited advice, but tendered it anyway.
"I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds, but you might want to put on a shirt with sleeves. Denim if you have it."
Bundy looked from his arms to Mead. "Why's that?"
Mead was excited to share his knowledge. His voice quickened. "You've seen the zombies eating people?"
Bundy nodded.
"They tear through bare skin like it's raw burger. Cotton and poly isn't much better. But denim or leather, they're going to have to gnaw away for a hell of a long time to get through that and bite you."
"Okay..."
"And you need gloves. If you get into a hand to hand kind of situation, all it takes is a half second where you're pushing them away or fighting them off and they chomp down on your finger and—" He smacked his hands together.
"Bang! You're a ticking zombie time bomb!" Mead ran his own gloved hands over his body, displaying the heavy material and the duct tape he'd supplemented it with. "See what I mean? Everything covered. You've got to protect yourself, man."
Bundy raised an eyebrow, but didn't respond further.
They waited through an uncomfortable silence that was broken only when Bundy noticed Mead staring longingly at his van.
"Where are you heading?" Bundy asked.
"How about wherever you're going?"
Bundy nodded again. "Get in. Only rule I got is don't be annoying."
"That I can do," Mead assured him. It ended up being a false promise.
Shortly after they fled Pennsylvania, boredom overcame them and they stopped in a small Maryland border town where they held a contest to see who could kill the most zombies in sixty seconds. The center of town seemed a suitable site as several dozen creatures roamed freely.
Mead, armed with his hockey stick went first as Bundy checked his watch. Mea
d strolled toward the zombies, stuck his index and middle fingers into his mouth, and let out a shrill whistle. "Time to die, motherfuckers!"
All the zombies were of the slower variety. That's something Mead had noticed over the last few days. Almost all of them seemed to have slowed down. He only witnessed one runner after day three, and that was a man Mead saw get attacked and turn.
When Mead whistled, the zombies headed in his direction. The leader of the pack was a beefy senior citizen, and with one swing of the stick, Mead sliced his head open diagonally from his jowls to his eyebrows.
Next up was a teenage girl in a Catholic school uniform. Mead took a moment to admire how the swells of her breasts pushed against the white material of her shirt, then remembered this was a race. He used the knife end of the stick to pierce her eye socket.
He felled another eighteen zombies in the minute. The last one was a police officer, and after Mead brought the bladed end of the stick down squarely on the top of his head, opening a crevice through which the man's dead brains were visible, Buddy yelled, "Time!"
"I was hoping I'd get that one," Bundy added.
Mead dropped back to the van. He felt good about his performance and hoped he'd impressed the big man. He wanted his respect. He felt he'd earned it.
The zombies were thicker now, drawn by the commotion. Bundy took his spot at the front of the vehicle and leaned back against the hood. Mead felt the front end sag.
"Ready?" Bundy asked.
"Whenever you are."
"Go."
Bundy drew his pistol, raised it and aimed. He plinked a woman in a "World's Greatest Mom!" shirt first. Then a boy in a soccer uniform, then a middle-aged man who had much of his face eaten away. He hit three more, all head shots, before firing a round that went through the cheek of a woman in a lime green pantsuit and flew out the other side.
"Almost got a hole in one!" Mead called out.
